Here's the thing about summer: it's not actually the blissed-out, sun-filled, margarita-spiked season we are led to believe it is.
Don't get me wrong: I love summer. I love wearing sundresses and sunglasses and sandals. I love glasses of wine on fire escapes and frozen negronis with friends. I love that I brought a bag of stone fruit back from the farmer's market on a Saturday and had eaten the whole damn thing by Tuesday. I love that it means vacations and adventures. I love the cool air on the subway. I love that feeling when you get back from the beach, sun-tired and sunscreened and sandy, when you get to shower, soak up some aloe, and slip into next-to-nothing for dinner.
I don't love that this summer, I haven't caught my breath enought to enjoy it. There are not as many quiet moments when you're trying to make summer be everything you think it should be, everything you believe summer should live up to.
So rereading this amazing essay from Zadie Smith came at exactly the right time.
There is some stress in that constant pursuit of "happiness," isn't there? That's what I've been feeling this summer, I think. An attempt to make my summer the ideal, bright, hashtag-worthy season of my dreams. That's exhausting. Summer isn't supposed to be a competition, another thing to strive for. It's supposed to give you a break. So that's what I'm doing in August. Finding my beach. Even if that means sitting in front of my window fan in my skivvies, watching Gilmore Girls.